


You Remember That Time

by AZGirl



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:39:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter who is doing the telling, every story begins with that phrase, and each time he hears it, d’Artagnan knows he’s about to be entertained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Remember That Time

**Author's Note:**

> Set in season one – between 1.02 Sleight of Hand and 1.03 Commodities. No spoilers.

**ooooooo**

_“We owe it to each other to tell stories.” – Neil Gaiman._

ooooooo 

It doesn’t matter if they are sitting around the campfire, eating a meal together, drinking at the tavern, or riding across country, because conversation between his three friends inevitably turns towards discussions of their past adventures. It’s something they do to idle away the hours, and even though they are soldiers, there is more time for conversation then one would initially think. 

“You remember that time…?” 

No matter who is doing the telling, every story begins with that phrase, and each time he hears it, d’Artagnan knows he’s about to be entertained. He sits up and, with rapt attention, listens to whichever of his companions is speaking at the time. 

Each of them has their own storytelling style that fits perfectly with their personalities. Porthos is boisterous and truly enjoys telling stories of the places he’s been to and the missions they’ve been on. Aramis is passionate and nearly every account ends up being about romancing a woman and being a hero. Athos is understated; he rarely gives in to the others’ demands, but when he does, his narratives are highly detailed and rarely about anything from further back than five years ago. It’s thrilling to hear about what they’ve been through together. He feels as if he’s gaining insights into his friends and slowly being accepted into their group. 

At first, d’Artagnan thinks they are trying to subtly teach him something about life or being a Musketeer, but it doesn’t take long for him to realize that they really _are_ just passing the time. It is clear that they would have told the same stories whether he had been there or not. They are reminiscing for the sake of reminiscing and _nothing_ else. None of the stories are about their recent adventures together. 

Despite being disappointed over that realization, d’Artagnan still relishes the tales that are told and looks forward to hearing them. He even manages to learn something once in a while even though he is certain that hadn’t been the goal of sharing the tale. 

They never ask him to tell them any of his stories, which he originally thought had been in deference to the recent loss of his father. It was possible that they thought it would have been too painful for him to reminisce about his family when he was the only one left. 

After months of training, missions, and drinking together, they still have never asked for his stories or much else about him personally. He knows he was raised on a farm, but it’s not as if _nothing_ had ever happened to him. Some of the things he and his friends had done may not be as exciting as saving a baron or stopping bandits from terrorizing a village, but many of them could be considered humorous. He’s tried several times to share a story from his days before coming to Paris, but inevitably one of his elders overrides him. 

“You remember that time…?” 

Eventually, he realizes that he’s heard some of their stories more than once and that only the details change to seemingly suit the mood the teller is in. He wonders if anything he has ever heard about their lives personally or as Musketeers has even had a single ounce of truth to it. Though he is still new to their lives the idea that the Athos, Aramis, and Porthos don’t trust him with their real selves passes through his mind more often than it probably should. 

It’s about the fourth time he’s heard about a particular mission to Normandy, that he stops really paying attention to the tales being told around the campfire, in the tavern, or out on the road. Maybe he’s tired of being left out of their conversation or maybe he has finally decided that anything he hears from them outside of training or their missions is not true, but when he hears that phrase – _you remember that time…_? – he starts turning a deaf ear to their words. What used to excite him now makes him almost cringe. 

Most of the time, he plasters a pleasant smile on his face and makes sure to look like he’s listening, laughing when the others do. Often, he can avoid story time by offering to go get more firewood or to hunt for their dinner. At other times, he turns in early to avoid yet another retelling of his friends’ run-in with yet another group of bandits. 

It’s when they are spending the day riding across the country that he finds it the most difficult to ignore his friends. Sometimes, he can escape by offering to scout ahead, but most of the time he is stuck listening to the more outrageous of their repertoire. Over time though, he learns that he can let his mind wander and the others never notice the difference. He’s never asked his opinion or anything else so as long as his horse follows the others, he’s free to think about other things. 

The moment he hears those four words – _you remember that time…_? – he mentally retreats just enough to ignore his friends’ attempts to pass the time. Often he turns to thinking about his training – what he could improve on and what he still wants to learn. He’s so grateful that he’s even been given this chance to prove himself, and wonders what his father would have thought about the direction he’s chosen for his life. 

He dwells on the fact that, with their history together, he will never truly be friends on the same level as the others are with each other. He’s fully aware that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are called the Inseparables by others of the regiment, and has heard some of the Musketeers call him their puppy, their shadow, their errand boy, or other less charitable names he doesn’t care to think about. He will always be the new one, always be the youngest, and thinks he will always feel out of place and just barely accepted and tolerated. 

He wonders what will happened if he ever earns his commission. His so-called friends seem content to train him, but what happens next? Will they still want to work with him or will they abandon him to be teamed up with other Musketeers he barely knows? Will they even want to continue to spend time with him outside of their duties? 

Suddenly, he hears someone yell and gunfire explodes at his horse’s hooves, causing it to rear up and unseat him. And, before he can even register that he’s falling, he’s landing on the ground. Pain erupts on his right side and his vision greys out. 

The sound of more gunfire brings him back from the edge of darkness and he attempts to pick himself up off the ground. His friends are in trouble and he needs to help them, but he can’t seem to get his limbs to work properly. 

Somehow he manages to get his feet under him and he is almost standing straight when one of his friends – Porthos? – tackles him to the ground. Unfortunately, he lands on his right side again and he’s more than willing to meet the darkness that rushes towards him. 

Awareness returns slowly, followed swiftly by pain, and he finds himself in an unknown bed, his right arm strapped to his body. From the pain traveling like bolts of lightning up and down his right side, he instinctively knows that moving would be a very bad idea. 

Almost immediately, he hears the voices of his friends, though they seem to be some distance away from him. He is content to lie there with his eyes closed and listen to them as it helps to distract him from his aches and pains. But it’s when he hears that now cringe-worthy phrase – _you remember that time…_? – that he can’t help but groan in displeasure. 

From the sounds he hears next, the others have heard his groan and realize that he is awake. He doesn’t bother to open his eyes until one of them touches his left arm. 

“There you are,” Aramis says with a broad smile on his face. “How are you feeling?” 

D’Artagnan ignores the question and asks one of his own though the words come out as nearly a whisper due to his dry throat. “What happened?” 

Aramis places an extra pillow behind his head before helping him drink some water while Athos answers his question. “You nearly got yourself and Porthos killed because you apparently did not hear my warning about trouble coming.” 

“It was just lucky that the bad guys had worse aim than the stable boys at the garrison,” Porthos added with a grin before his expression becomes remorseful. “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

He gestures to his right side with his left hand. “It’s fine. Most of this happened when my horse dumped me onto the ground.” 

“Which wouldn’t have happened if you had been paying attention!” Athos barks, looking angrier than he’d ever before seen the older man. 

D’Artagnan would later blame his outburst on the pain in his head, shoulder, and ribs which makes him short-tempered, loose-tongued, and loud. 

“Which wouldn’t have been a problem if I hadn’t had to turn a deaf ear to the fifth retelling of your adventure in Gordes two years ago!” 

The world around him fades for bit when he is painfully reminded that it is not wise to yell at someone when your ribs are injured and your head is pounding. He closes his eyes tight and curls up in pain as much as his wounded shoulder will let him. There is a hand gripping his good arm, grounding him back to reality, even as a voice is gently reminding him to breathe. 

Eventually, the pain recedes and the world around him comes back into focus, but all he wants to do is disappear into the mattress and pretend he hasn’t spoken a truth that he never meant to share. He was the newcomer and had absolutely no right to complain, especially since the three older men were so graciously taking the time to train him. 

No one says a thing as Aramis coaxes him to straighten out his body and take some more water. He doesn’t dare make eye contact with anyone and awaits his fate. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Athos walk towards him from where he’d been standing by the window. He sits in the chair placed next to the bed and says nothing but d’Artagnan can feel the older man’s eyes boring into him. 

It is a forgone conclusion that he will look up, but he resists as long as possible. When he finally gives in, Athos says, “Please explain.” 

Instead of explaining, he chooses to apologize. “I am sorry that I endangered everyone due to my inattention. It will not happen again.” 

“No; it won’t,” Athos agrees. He leans forward slightly, raising an eyebrow a fraction before continuing, “I asked for an explanation, _not_ an apology.” 

Athos’s voice is perfectly calm, but there is also something in it which is clearly telling him to stop stalling – or else. 

So he stops stalling, and for the first time, d’Artagnan gets to tell a story of his own. When he begins speaking, he has no intention of telling them everything, but when d’Artagnan locks eyes with Athos, it all comes tumbling out anyway. 

The room is silent when he is finished. 

He tears his eyes away from Athos’s, who looks at Aramis and Porthos in turn. A fair amount of envy rises up within him as he witnesses the three of them silently communicate with each other, and he wonders if he’ll ever have that kind of familiarity with anyone. Despite witnessing the whole “conversation,” he’s at a loss to know what they are thinking. 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Aramis asks, confusion coloring his voice. 

“It’s not my place,” he replies. “I—” 

“The hell it ain’t,” Porthos interjects, but quiets when Athos and Aramis both give him a quelling look. 

D’Artagnan ignores the interruption. “I am the newcomer, the intruder, the youngest. You have been in each other’s company for years and are set in your ways. Your stories are entertainment and they help you cope with what’s happened in your lives. I have no right to interfere, and I have no right to ask you to stop. I just wish…” 

He trails off and runs his good hand through his hair before dropping it back into his lap. 

“What do you wish?” Athos quietly inquires. 

He shakes his head and refuses to answer the question. A hand reaches out to grab his knee and give it a gentle squeeze. He looks up at Athos, whose mouth twitches slightly at one corner. D’Artagnan chooses to believe it is the older man’s attempt at encouragement. 

“I wish that I could hear the _real_ stories.” 

“Real stories?” Aramis asks at the same time d’Artagnan sees a concerned look briefly flash across Athos’s face. 

“More often than not, the stories you tell are not yours. They are someone else’s and about someone else. I would consider it an honor if you would tell me stories that would help me to get to know you better.” He holds up a hand to forestall any potential protests. “I don’t mean anything deeply personal or confidential…just things like the missions you’ve been on.” 

He yawns and rubs a hand over his face in an attempt to stay focused on the situation at hand. When he lowers his hand, Aramis is ready to help him drink more water. 

“Rest, d’Artagnan,” Aramis says, “You’ve earned yourself another concussion, and slight as it is, we have been remiss in letting you get some rest.” 

The extra pillow is carefully removed from behind his head and he is asleep as soon as he closes his eyes. 

The next morning, they spend way too much time arguing over whether or not he was healthy enough to ride. In the end, he gets fed up and carefully mounts his horse when his elders’ backs are turned. He reminds them that he’s ridden with bruised or broken ribs several times before and can handle the residual pain from his recently dislocated shoulder. In deference to his injuries, they stick to a gentle walking gait for their horses. 

An hour later, just as he is beginning to curse his stubbornness for insisting that he can ride, he hears Athos say, “Did I ever tell you about my first mission after I earned my commission with the Musketeers?” 

Because he’s heard the older man tell so few stories overall, it means that much more to him that the first _real_ story his three friends share with him is one that Athos recites. As he listens to every word Athos says, d’Artagnan finally begins to feel truly accepted and most of the pain from his injuries fades into the background. 

In the following months and years, “ _Did I ever tell you…?”_ becomes one of his favorite phrases. 

**ooooooo**

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Author's Note:**

> Is it weird that I got the idea for this story due to a breakthrough on one of my other, unfinished ones?
> 
> No beta; mistakes are part of life. ;0) Also posted on fanfiction.net.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
